XLIII.

A frog may do what A man may not.

A bull-frog in a malarial pond is expected to croak and make all the protest he can against his surroundings.  But a man!  Destined for a crown and sent upon earth to be educated for the court of the King of kings!  Placed in an emerald world with a hither edge of opaline shadow and a fine spray of diamond-dust to set it sparkling; with ten million singing birds to form its orchestra; sunset clouds and sunrise mists to drape it, and countless flowers to make it sweet while the hand of God himself upholds it on its way among the clustering stars, what right has a man to find fault with his surroundings, or lament himself that all things do not go to suit him here below?  When it shall be in order for the glow-worm to call the midday sun to account, or for the wood-tick to find fault with the century old oak that protects it; or for the blue-bird to question the haze on a midsummer horizon because, forsooth! it is a little off color with his own wings, then it will be time for man to find fault with the ordering of the seasons and the allotment of the weather in the world he is allowed to inhabit.

XLIV.

Thanking god for A good husband.

About one hour of the twenty-four would perhaps be the proportion of time a woman ought to spend upon her knees thanking God for a good husband.  When I see the hosts of sorry maids, and women wearing draggled widow’s weeds who fill the ranks of the great army of the self-supporting; when I see them trooping along in the rain, slipping along in the mud, leaping for turning bridges, and hanging on to the straps in horse cars, I feel like sending out a circular to sheltered and happy wives bidding them be thankful for their lot.  To be sure, one would rather be a scrub-woman or a circus-jumper than be the wife of some men we wot of, but in the main, a woman well married is like a jewel well set, or like a light well sheltered from the wind.

XLV.

Just A little tired!

What a grubby old stopping place this world is, anyway.  How hard we have to work just to keep the flesh on our bones and that flesh covered, even with nothing better than homespun.  And we are getting a little tired of it all, aren’t we, my dear?  Just a little tired of the treadmill, where, like a sheep in a dairy, we pace our limited beat to bring a handful of inadequate butter.  We have trudged to and fro about long enough, and have half a mind to throw up the contract with fate.  But hold on a bit.  There is something worse than too much work, and that is idleness.  Imagine a sudden hush in all the myriad sounds of labor.  The ceasing of the whirr of countless wheels whereat men stand day after